A man is like a bus
He is always following his own way written on the timetable
He stops at bus stations blinking his right headlights
He starts again winking those from the left
Sometimes you wait for him long minutes and he comes so full
Some other times he waits for you with open doors almost empty
He invites you to get on his dusty steps to sweep them with your traces
One day I went up through the last door
It was quite dark not so many passengers
I needed somebody to carry on my freedom
Of traveling motionless from one state to another
I sat down on a chair with my face towards the established line of travel
Oh God a woman was sitting by me her temple leaning against the window
I could look at her only blindly with the corner of my eye
Who had wept acid on her shoulders of twisted copper skin
Who kissed her cheeks hollow with torridity
What kind of words had stuck forever on the wound of her mouth
I was asking myself where her canicular lover was
Who had partially melted her arms like large candles
And how could she soothe him with fingers of matches